


Perchance to Dream

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Misunderstandings, Platonic Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zelenka shrugged, slotting a crystal into the tray. “Is not my place,” he said. He worked silently for a moment, then continued, “But I hope you will tell him. He deserves to know.”</p><p>That took Sheppard aback. “What, that we got drunk together and you--” He stopped and gestured into the dark, unable to articulate it. “Nothing happened!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Possibilidade de Sonhar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519774) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



Zelenka cracked open the second bottle of his private stock of moonshine, and Sheppard began to think maybe drinking away his stress with the wily Czech scientist wasn't such a great idea. Zelenka's hooch, a faint lavender vodka he brewed in a still Elizabeth wasn't supposed to know about, was not just strong—it had to have been at least 150 proof. It was practically rubbing alcohol—Sheppard was sure he was going to wake up blind. 

And he definitely shouldn't have agreed to go drink for drink with him: Zelenka could really hold his liquor. It must have been those winters in Eastern Europe or something because they'd downed a bottle between the two of them and Zelenka was barely slurring, swaying slightly back and forth.

Sheppard, on the other hand, had to use every inch of his scant concentration to stay upright in his chair. Everything had gone soft and a little blurry. Zelenka was muttering in Czech, the liquid in his cup sloshing as he gestured.

“Zelenka!” Sheppard finally interrupted. “English please.” Except his mouth wouldn't do what he wanted it to; it had deleted all the vowels from the sentence. Well, who needed vowels anyway? He put one hand flat on the lab table for balance and brought his cup to his lips. He managed to spill half of it down his front.

Zelenka paused mid-ramble, having ignored Sheppard's request for a familiar tongue, and flashed him a concerned glance over his glasses, which had slid low on the bridge of his nose.

“Am thinking you have have enough, Colonel,” he said, tugging the cup out of Sheppard's hand. He paused a moment, then tossed it back.

Sheppard stuck his bottom lip out, pouting. “That was mine.” He frowned at the way the words all smeared together.

Zelenka set Sheppard's cup down on the table and got unsteadily to his feet. “Time for bed, yes?” His eyes looked pinched around the corners and his unruly hair was even messier than usual, a byproduct of the many times he'd run his hands through it. Sheppard thought he looked like he could use another drink or two.

“I don't want to,” said Sheppard stubbornly, like a child. Like McKay. Sheppard frowned again, his previously alcohol-numbed thoughts taking a detour toward morose. “He'll be okay, right Radek?”

Zelenka didn't respond. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair yet again, and wordlessly helped Sheppard to his feet. Finally, he said, “He is stubborn.” That wasn't an answer, and Sheppard started to tell him so, but Zelenka pulled him toward the door and he got distracted when his feet were suddenly no longer underneath him. Zelenka got an arm around his waist and shoved him upright, muttering softly in Czech. Sheppard didn't know what he was saying (“English, Radek!” he slurred), but Zelenka's voice was gentle and soothing, and Sheppard found himself zoning out, focused on the quiet lilt.

Zelenka got them moving again, and Sheppard manged to stay on his feet, leaning heavily on Zelenka for balance. Then Zelenka gave him a little shake and said, “Colonel Sheppard?” and they were standing outside of his quarters.

Sheppard shuffled out of Zelenka's grasp and leaned his forehead on the door like an Athosian greeting. He felt the faint hum of Atlantis in his head. It was different, somehow—tinged with a little sadness, a little worry. The city was worried about Rodney too—or maybe that was the alcohol talking. He pulled his head back, leaned on Zelenka again, and the door slid open. The lights were on but dimmed, and the two men staggered in.

Sheppard flopped down on the bed. Sleep sounded good right about now—if only the room would stop spinning. He closed his eyes, but that didn't help, so he struggled up into something approximating a sitting position, leaning on his elbows.

Zelenka was unlacing his boots and tugging them off. He took a blanket from where it lay crumpled upon the corner of the bed and laid it over Sheppard. He turned to leave, but Sheppard grabbed his wrist.

“Stay.”

And for the first time, Zelenka looked anywhere near as wrecked as Sheppard felt. That pinched look was back around his eyes, fine lines around his mouth.

“Colonel,” he began, but Sheppard tugged him closer.

“Stay,” he repeated. He wasn't sure what he wanted, really, but Zelenka had been so warm pressed against him and his unintelligible litany so nice.

Zelenka sighed, and then he pulled back the blanket and nudged Sheppard, who wiggled over to make space. Zelenka sat up, his back against the headboard, and Sheppard curled up next to him. He fell asleep as Zelenka stroked his hair and murmured in Czech.

 

The bright morning sunlight filtered in through the windows and promptly stabbed Sheppard in the eyes. That's what it felt like anyway. His mouth felt and tasted like something crawled in and died, and Sheppard was definitely never drinking again, especially whatever rot gut swill they made out on the North pier and definitely not at the pace of any Eastern European scientists.

Speaking of—Zelenka had fallen asleep at some point, slumping over to take over the top half of the bed while Sheppard had moved down to compensate. His glasses were still on his face, barely, shoved up on his forehead and badly askew.

Sheppard crawled out of bed slowly, both to avoid waking Zelenka and to try to soothe the throbbing ache behind his eyes. He was pretty sure he had some aspirin in the bathroom. He found the bottle and popped two into his mouth, swallowing them down with a drink from cupped hands. He splashed some water onto his face, then padded back into the main room.

Sheppard was pretty sure he would be freaking out right now if his head would stop pounding long enough to let him. He only had snatches of fuzzy memories from last night—Carson kicking him out of the infirmary, winding up at the labs, Zelenka pouring him a glass of alien potato vodka.

He remembered asking Zelenka to stay with him, and he wasn't sure what to do with that information. Zelenka was a civilian, so Sheppard didn't have to keep his chain-of-command emotional distance, but he usually wanted to. 

He thought he might be a little drunk, still. That would explain why he hadn't dashed out of the room with every intention of never speaking to Zelenka again. Instead, he reached out to nudge Zelenka. Zelenka woke with a start, blinking sleep out of his wide eyes.

Sheppard was saved the trouble of figuring out what to say to him when his radio squawked from the bedside table. He slipped it into place and winced at Carson's much too loud, “Colonel Sheppard?”

“Sheppard,” he confirmed uncomfortably.

“Colonel, he's awake,” said Carson.

“I'll be right there.” Sheppard snapped his fingers at Zelenka, conveyed the message, and shoved his feet into boots. He didn't bother to lace them and sped out of the room, Zelenka on his heels.

They crashed into the infirmary where they found McKay sitting up in his hospital bed, digging into a bowl of oatmeal, the IV needle still in his hand. Carson flitted around, checking wires and taking readings. They both looked up at the same time.

Carson made a concerned face and opened his mouth to comment, but McKay ran right over him. “What the hell happened to you two? Christ, you smell like a still.” He narrowed his eyes at the pair of them, taking in their wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and the faint red pillow creases on Zelenka's cheek.

Because of course McKay would choose this exact moment to become aware of other people. Sheppard was way too hung over to deal with an emotionally-aware Rodney McKay, and he hoped his had schooled his face into his usual smirky cool in time to hide the relief and guilt he had probably previously been displaying.

“Glad to see you're okay, McKay,” Sheppard said, grateful his voice didn't crack. He glanced over at Zelenka, who was just sort of staring. Maybe Zelenka was still a little drunk too. Sheppard elbowed him, and he said, “Uh, yes. Science department is lost without you.”

McKay frowned, but he dug back into his oatmeal, apparently satisfied. Carson took Sheppard and McKay and pulled him into a corner of the infirmary. Sheppard started to offer an excuse for their behavior, but Carson cut him off.

“I don't want to know,” he said, holding up a hand. “But you both need a shower and some coffee. Rodney will be fine. I don't want to see either of you end up here yourselves, understand?”

Both men nodded mutely. Sheppard glanced at McKay once more, reassuring himself that he really was fine, and then they left the infirmary.

 

Sheppard had thought he'd done a pretty good job of avoiding Zelenka over the next couple of days without being too obvious about it. McKay seemed to forget anything he'd noticed in the infirmary, so Sheppard figured he didn't have to avoid McKay too. 

Until McKay sat down across from Sheppard at lunch one day and said, with no preamble, “Did you sleep with Zelenka?”

Sheppard paused mid-bite, and his spoonful of soup went down the wrong pipe. He spent several moments coughing and hacking, and when he finally managed to compose himself, he croaked, “What?”

“Did you sleep with Zelenka?” McKay repeated matter-of-factly (and entirely too loudly) as he unwrapped his sandwich.

“Jesus McKay, do you want to get me court martialed?” Sheppard hissed, eyes darting around. No one seemed to have overheard, fortunately.

McKay rolled his eyes. “It's a simple question, Colonel,” he said with a sniff. He did lower his volume though. “You both came in at the same time wearing yesterday's clothes and smelling like that swill Zelenka brews. What am I supposed to think?”

It was a fair point, really. Sheppard was pretty sure Carson had come to the same conclusion, judging by the looks he'd been getting every time he ran into the doctor.

“Not that,” muttered Sheppard, attempting to hide behind his soup spoon.

“It's okay if you did.” Sheppard tried not to stare bug-eyed. He had a feeling he wasn't very successful. “I know your country's military has its collected head up its ass when it comes to things patently obvious to the rest of the civilized world, but this is an international expedition, and we're a long way from Earth.” McKay looked up from his lunch to notice Sheppard's expression and apparently read it as panicked instead of the incredulous he'd thought he was going for. 

“I won't tell anyone,” McKay said hurriedly. “I know not everyone in your idiotic military is as enlightened as we are in the science division. I can be discreet, you know. Do you have any idea how many NDAs I've signed?”

“McKay!” Sheppard interrupted finally. “I did not sleep with Zelenka.” This had the benefit of being true, at least in the sense McKay meant. Sheppard was pretty sure he'd let Wraith eat him before he admitted to McKay what had actually happened between him and Zelenka that night.

McKay did not appear to believe him, in any case. He had a knowing look on his face, a mixture of sympathy and smugness that said he was absolutely not buying Sheppard's denial for a second.

Except that it wasn't a denial, not exactly. Okay, maybe in the strictest sense it was, and sure, he had literally slept with Zelenka, but that was it. But he was pretty sure trying to convince McKay any further would have the opposite effect and Jesus, was he actually _humming_?

Maybe a version of the truth would convince him. “We had a few drinks. Maybe a few too many,” he said carefully. He twirled his spoon in his soup bowl, mostly to avoid looking at McKay.

“I'll say,” McKay scoffed. “About half a bottle too many, judging by the smell.”

“But that's it. We drank, I went home and slept it off.” McKay raised an eyebrow at him. “ _Alone_.” Okay, that part was a straight-up lie, but what was a lie between friends when his sanity (and probably career) was at stake?

“If you say so, Colonel,” McKay said, smug smirk still firmly in place.

Okay, fine. Desperate times. “McKay,” Sheppard growled, using his giving orders/terrifying recruits voice. “Drop it.”

McKay was unfazed. He flapped a hand in Sheppard's direction and said airily, “Fine, fine. Sorry I impugned your hetero machismo, Colonel Lothario.” He got up to bus his tray, still smirking.

There was no way this could end well.

 

McKay called Sheppard down to the labs later that evening, saying the he needed him to touch some Ancient gizmo the scientists had found. Sheppard almost blew him off in an attempt to further avoid Zelenka, but McKay said it might be a phaser (well, he said “some kind of energy weapon” and Sheppard had made the leap).

Which is how he found himself locked in McKay's private lab with the very person he'd been trying to avoid.

“McKay!” Sheppard yelled at the door, pounding it with his fist. The usually transparent windows had been opaqued, and no amount of thinking and willing was getting them to clear up again. “Let us out of here!”

“Some of us have actual work to do, Rodney,” Zelenka chimed in. “Open the door.”

There was no answer.

“McKay!” Sheppard shouted again, using every ounce of scary military power he possessed. He tapped his radio, hoping to signal Elizabeth or Teyla or hell, even Kavanaugh, but there was only static. He let his head thump heavily against the door and asked Atlantis herself to open the door. Beneath the hum of the city, there was a trace of apology, a hint of effort and failure. He pulled back and said to Zelenka, “I think he put an actual padlock on there.” He flashed him an apologetic half-smile.

Zelenka waved a hand and muttered something in Czech before kneeling beside the door and opening the access panel. He pulled out a tray of crystals, peered at them, and then swore.

“He took one out,” he explained. “Without that crystal, door will not open.” He stood up and pulled open an access panel further up on the wall. He took a look and said, “I believe I can work around, but lights in this room will go out. Can you find a flashlight?”

Sheppard poked through McKay's desk, grateful for Zelenka's all-business approach to their predicament. He should really take a page from his book instead of avoiding Zelenka like an embarrassed teenage girl.

“Got it,” Sheppard said, holding up a flashlight. He'd been hoping to find McKay's office stash of chocolate, payment for this ridiculous charade, but of course McKay was too smart to hide his stash where his minions could find it. At least Zelenka would be able to get them out.

Zelenka pulled a crystal from the room's panel, and it went dark. Sheppard held the flashlight while Zelenka rewired the door panel. It was quiet, the darkness seeming to amplify the incidental noises. He could hear their breathing, the shuffle of Zelenka's work, and the murmur of Czech. Judging from the tone and the occasional “McKay”, Sheppard guessed he was cursing McKay, and Sheppard couldn't blame him. He listened for a while.

McKay's reaction to his assumption unsettled Sheppard, and he was having trouble figuring out why, exactly. It wasn't, despite what McKay might think, about court martials or hetero machismo. He'd been in college once, and the military was just a lot quieter about its pressure release systems. He hadn't indulged on Atlantis mostly because everyone was technically his subordinate and civilians could be indiscreet. They could keep Stargates and Naquadah and space travel under their hats, but the minute any of them got laid, it was practically public knowledge.

Maybe he should sleep with Zelenka, he thought. McKay made a lot of noise about alien priestesses, but it wasn't like Sheppard sought their attention. He didn't exactly spurn their advances either, but it didn't happen nearly as often as McKay seemed to think. Zelenka could be discreet, and he was smart and witty, though not nearly as much as McKay.

“Radek,” he began, breaking the quiet.

He heard Zelenka sigh. “I did not tell him anything, Colonel Sheppard.”

Sheppard mulled that over. “Thank you.”

Zelenka shrugged, slotting a crystal into the tray. “Is not my place,” he said. He worked silently for a moment, then continued, “But I hope you will tell him. He deserves to know.”

That took Sheppard aback. “What, that we got drunk together and you--” He stopped and gestured into the dark, unable to articulate it. “Nothing happened!”

Zelenka turned to look up at Sheppard. Even in the thin glow of the flashlight beam, Sheppard could make out the sympathetic and vaguely sad expression Zelenka wore.

But there wasn't anything to confess. Nothing had happened, and even if it had, it was none of McKay's business. He didn't owe McKay anything.

Zelenka had apparently decided that Sheppard needed it spelled out because he said, “When Doctor Beckett said there was nothing to be done for Rodney except to wait, you came to the labs and drank half a bottle of bad vodka to console yourself.”

“That was your idea,” Sheppard pointed out defensively.

“I suggested _a_ drink,” Zelenka clarified. “Maybe two. You looked like you needed it. Like a lost puppy.”

Sheppard almost dropped the flashlight. “I didn't--” he denied reflexively. “It was nothing. I just...” He stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Zelenka turned back to the crystals. “Light here, please” was all he said. He worked in silence again. A moment later, the door slid open. Sheppard made to leave, but Zelenka grabbed his wrist. Sheppard couldn't get his similar action out of his mind.

“Tell him, Colonel,” Zelenka repeated.

Sheppard studied his face, half lit as light from the main lab spilled through the now-open door. A thought dawned on him. “You drank the other half. Why don't you tell him?”

A sad smile played across Zelenka's mouth. “What good what it do?” he said, as clear an admission as any. “It is not me he races cars with or calls with discoveries in the middle of the night.” Then he released Sheppard's arm and slid past him out of the lab.

Sheppard stayed there for a minute, mental wheels spinning. It made sense, he supposed, Zelenka having feelings for McKay. They spent a lot of time together and McKay was so overbearing that there wasn't a lot of middle ground on the love-him-or-hate-him spectrum.

So where did that leave Sheppard? He wandered into the main lab, pondering this, when he ran into McKay. Literally. He put his hands on McKay's shoulders and stepped back.

“Sheppard!” said McKay, looking surprised. Sheppard guessed he hadn't expected to see him out of the office so soon. McKay underestimated everyone's abilities, probably Zelenka's most of all.

“McKay,” Sheppard responded, voice wary.

McKay's face smoothed and he put on his usual airy impatience. “No luck with Zelenka, huh?”

Sheppard rolled his eyes. “I told you I didn't sleep with Zelenka.”

“That's what he said,” McKay said with a scowl.

“So instead of believing us you decided to lock us in your office to—what, see if we'd do it again?”

“No!” McKay paused, then set his shoulders. “I thought since you'd been avoiding each other you might need a little push to talk about...whatever.”

So much for subtlety. It wasn't like Sheppard and Zelenka spent a lot of time together anyway, but it must have been really obvious if McKay had noticed. “We weren't avoiding each other,” he said, more out of habit than any real denial.

“Please. You didn't come to the lab once to drag me to lunch or watch some awful movie.”

“Okay, fine. I was avoiding him.” McKay opened his mouth, face lit up, but Sheppard cut him off. “It was _not_ because I slept with him.”

“Then why—“

Sheppard let out a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe Zelenka was right. McKay was tenacious, like a junk yard dog that had gotten hold of a bone. He wasn't likely to let the matter drop, no matter how many subtle social cues, orders, or threats Sheppard threw at him. And what was the worst that could happen? McKay would laugh or make fun of him. He guessed McKay might try to hit him, especially if he through it was a come-on, but Sheppard could handle that.

He signed and leaned against a nearby lab table. He was grateful it was late enough that the lab was empty. McKay watched him curiously.

Finally, Sheppard took a deep breath and said, “Look McKay, I did not have sex with Zelenka.” McKay started to speak, but Sheppard just rolled right over him. “But I did sleep with him. In the literal sense of sleeping.” McKay closed his mouth again, an odd expression on his face. “ I didn't—nothing happened. I just—when you collapsed and there was nothing Beckett could do, I just sort of... panicked.”

Sheppard could feel the color rising in his cheeks, and he ducked his head, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I wound up in the labs, Radek got out the booze, I drank way too much, and he helped me back to my room. We were both pretty out of it, so he just... stayed.” McKay didn't need to know that it had been his idea, that he'd practically begged Zelenka to stay. That it wasn't just the alcohol, though it had certainly lowered his inhibitions enough to ask for the comfort he needed. McKay didn't need to know any of that, but he had a thoughtful look on his face, and Sheppard thought he might already know.

“So you were so worried about me that you fell into a still and let Zelenka sleep in your bed. Platonically,” McKay repeated, musing. Sheppard just nodded. McKay didn't look like he was going to laugh or hit him, so that was encouraging.

He continued, “And instead of admitting that you might have feelings and maybe needed a hug, you decided to act like a college girl making a freshman mistake?” Sheppard shrugged.

McKay stepped closer to Sheppard, right in front of him, then said in a quiet voice, “I'm fine, John.”

“But you weren't,” Sheppard found himself saying. “And there was no way to know if you would be. There was nothing to do, no one to shoot. It was just—waiting.” God, now Sheppard needed a drink, or maybe several, and absolutely no company at all, platonic or otherwise.

McKay took another step forward, invading Sheppard's space. He put a hand on Sheppard's bicep and said, “I might have lied earlier.”

“About what?” Sheppard asked, distracted by the closeness, by McKay's warm hand.

“When I said it was okay if you slept with Zelenka. I'm glad you didn't.” And before Sheppard could react to that, McKay closed the distance between them and kissed him.

McKay's lips were soft and his kiss was gentle, which surprised Sheppard. McKay didn't do anything by halves and he certainly wasn't gentle. The shock at the sudden contact made Sheppard's shoulders tense, and McKay started to back away, misinterpreting. Sheppard darted out a hand to catch McKay's wrist, and asking him to stay here, now, was just so much different from asking Zelenka to stay.

Sheppard crashed his mouth against McKay's again, and his time there was nothing gentle about it. This was what he would have expected kissing McKay would be like. Their teeth clinked together in McKay's impatience and he gripped Sheppard's arms with both hands. He pressed up close, standing between Sheppard's knees. He was rough and fast as he mapped Sheppard's mouth, moving a mile a minute, the way he did everything. Sheppard could barely keep up, so he slid his arms around McKay and held on as best he could.

They came up for air a minute later, still clutching each other. McKay studied him for a moment, then said, “You're not going to have a heterosexual freak out now, are you? Because that would really put a damper on my getting laid plans.”

Sheppard couldn't help but laugh. “It's a little late for that,” he said. “I got that out of the way years ago.” He watched McKay process that. “Besides,” Sheppard continued, “what about you? I'm no Samantha Carter.”

“Yeah, you're definitely not a smokin' hot Air Force Colonel hiding a brain under a mop of unruly hair,” said McKay disdainfully.

“I meant I'm not a woman.”

“And I'm not an alien priestess, but we make do.” McKay snorted. “Did you really think I was going to limit myself to 51 percent of the population? My odds are better if I play the whole field.”

The made a sort of sense to Sheppard, but he didn't want to talk about it anymore, so he leaned forward and kissed McKay again, sliding his hands under his shirt. McKay responded enthusiastically, so they continued for several more minutes. Sheppard was just reaching for McKay's belt when McKay pulled back again.

“Oh no,” he said breathlessly. “We are not having sex for the first time in my open lab. Later maybe, but right now, bed.” That sounded just fine to Sheppard, so he let McKay tug him off the table and out of the lab.

 

Some time later, Sheppard found himself sharing a bed for the second time in as many weeks. But there was nothing platonic about this. McKay's bare chest was pressed against Sheppard's bare back, McKay's breath hot on his neck. He felt sleepy and sated (and a little sticky, but he was going to ignore that for now). He felt himself starting to doze, so he tried to extricate himself from McKay's grasp. He'd probably been seen leaving McKay's quarters at strange hours for purely platonic reasons (or so they had seemed at the time), but there was no sense in taking chances.

McKay tightened his hold. “You'll sleep with Zelenka, but not with me?” he murmured sleepily. “What, I'm only good for euphemistic sleeping?”

McKay was good for a lot more than that, so Sheppard settled back down and let himself drift off. There was a good chance they'd be awakened before morning with some crisis or other, and Atlantis was a lot way from the American military's uniform codes.

McKay shifted, wriggled around for a moment, then stilled. His shoulder pressed uncomfortably into Sheppard's back and his knees threatened to shove Sheppard off the tiny bed entirely, but somehow, despite the discomfort, sleeping with McKay, literally and not at all platonically, promised to be way, _way_ better than any nap with Zelenka.


End file.
